


Derek Hale Goes To Therapy

by thegirlnamedcove



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Also Derek was a lot more involved in the Nogitsune thing, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Emissary Alan Deaton, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 09:56:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10637499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlnamedcove/pseuds/thegirlnamedcove
Summary: What it says on the tin.





	

“I don’t understand,” Derek ran a hand along the cold metal exam table, “It’s not like it’s normal to feel this way. It was like a heart attack, I thought I was going to  _ die _ .”

 

Deaton smirked, although what in Derek’s explanation had been funny he couldn’t possibly guess. This was serious, even if his mother’s emissary was failing to acknowledge it.

 

“I’m sure you did. However I’m quite certain that was never the case. I’ve run every test I can think of, and come back with no magical traces. Normal might not be the word for how you’re feeling, but if it is what I think it is, rest assured that it’s common and fixable.”

 

“So you do have an idea?”

 

“It isn’t magic,” he stared searchingly at Derek. It made him feel the need to cover himself to ward off the gaze, despite being fully dressed (thank God).

 

“What else could it be?”

 

Deaton crossed the room and pulled several sheets of paper from where they were tucked behind a jar of cotton balls. Derek grimaces. It can’t be good if the wise old vet is actually deigning to give him real information instead of making him dance for his dinner, or worse: call Stiles.

 

“Based on what you said: a panic attack.”

 

“What?” his question is breathless, almost too quiet to hear in the huge, echoing exam room.

 

“It wasn’t anything supernatural. Just an ordinary panic attack, although by the sound of it a fairly severe one. It’s to be expected after the amount of trauma you’ve been through. Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t had one before now.”

 

Derek runs his hand nervously down his thighs, the denim rough against his hands. There’s a tear in this pair of jeans that he hasn’t had the time to patch, and the furry skin of his knee feels strangely gentle. He can’t deal with this, isn’t ready, but the sheaf of paper in Deaton’s hand is practically flashing like a siren and he has to know.

 

“So if that’s what happened...how can I know it won’t happen again.?”

 

Deaton’s smirk widens, becoming soft and indulgent. Derek wants to tear it from his face.

 

“There are no guarantees with panic attacks. You may continue to suffer from them for a long time. But I can recommend a few local therapists to help you work through the things that have happened to you, and even if it doesn’t cure the panic attacks right away I can guarantee it’ll help things with your pack.”

 

He sucks in a harsh breath. It’s a low blow, and one that Deaton must know is off limits. His pack, while larger than ever with the recent additions of Scott and Kira and all the people that come with them, has been disjointed and left to wither. Too many pack members leaving for college at once, scattering some of his best assets across the country. Not for the first time, he curses his decision to turn a bunch of teenagers all in the same year of high school. Starting the moment they’d handed out the last diploma at Beacon Hills High’s graduation ceremony they had started leaving, and as much as his rational brain understood how good this would be for them in the long run, his emotional hindbrain was still howling for his pack, his family, to come back to him. If he could be a better alpha by the time they returned, his hindbrain reasoned, maybe they would stay. At the very least they might visit more often, and he wouldn’t be alone the next time a fairy decided to visit their tiny town and start spiking the drinking water with fertility spells.

 

Deaton shoves the printout into his hands, and he can see names and addresses listed by location. He frowns, but accepts it.

 

“I don’t see how this would work. It’s not like I can be honest about what’s going on.”

 

“Do you think I’m that unfamiliar with your situation?” he laughs, “I’ve vetted everyone on that list. They’re all either werewolves themselves or aware of the supernatural. It’ll be a bit more of a drive than if you went to a traditional therapist here in town, but it should be worth it for the chance to speak freely.”

 

Derek scowls, but doesn’t comment further. He doesn’t like it, but if he has the option he can’t just let it pass without trying to fix some of what’s gone wrong for him. At the very least, he never wants to feel like that again, the panicked shortness of breath and sheer certainty that he was going to die. He accepts the list and shuffles out of the office before he can change his mind.

 

\---

 

Ruth Burrhus is a petite woman, with a big doe eyes and neat, chiclet teeth. They’re so straight and uniform that Derek can’t focus on anything else for a minute. He wishes, irrationally, that he could reach out and tilt just one out of alignment and maybe humanize her in doing it.

 

“So what are your goals for therapy?” she asks, “What are you hoping to change?”

 

He fists his hands in the fabric of his pants. For some godforsaken reason he felt the need to dress up for this meeting, like he could impress his therapist with a pair of slacks and a saffron colored polo and she’d declare him cured and competent as soon as he walked in.

 

“Well according to my family physician I’ve been having...panic attacks. And I’d like those to stop. It didn’t feel healthy, when it happened.”

 

He’s had two more in the three weeks it’s taken to get an appointment with Miss Burrhus, both triggered by something seemingly innocuous. In one case Scott had been an hour late for his usual Friday phone call. In the other he’d seen a woman in line at the grocery store with blonde hair and a sardonic smile that reminded him all too keenly of Kate.

 

“I can’t imagine it would. Panic attacks are one of the worst things a person can go through, in my opinion, because there’s no concrete problem to fix. Even when it feels urgently like the world will end if you don’t fix  _ something _ .”

 

Derek relaxes, if only a fraction.

 

“That’s exactly it,” he waves a hand in front of his face, “It’s like I need to do  _ something _ but whatever that something is is totally out of my grasp.”

 

“Panic attacks can be symptoms of generalized anxiety, or depression, or even something more severe. But a lot of times they come as a result of specific trauma, and considering that this meeting came with a supernatural confidentiality agreement I’m guessing that’s the more likely culprit. So why don’t you start at the beginning? What happened to you?”

 

\---

 

Once a week meetings turn into three times a week, which turn into Derek having Miss Burrhus’s on-call phone number for emergencies. With most of his pack gone from Beacon Hills he certainly has the time to spend in her office, but it still feels foreign no matter how long he spends doing it. She tries her hardest to make it feel organic and genuine, like two friends just talking over coffee, and he doesn’t go out of his way to point out how badly she fails. How badly any therapist would fail when they use terms like “transference” and “catastrophizing”.

 

Eventually they get past the Kate issue (Miss Burrhus insists he should have reported it, that someone in his life should have realized their relationship was inappropriate and stepped in, although Derek can’t quite believe it) and start chipping away at the tangled mess of his pack’s dynamics. The process is painful, like a root canal, like digging out all his nerve endings with a medieval looking metal hook and filling it in with plaster. He doesn’t want to admit that Scott’s alpha tendencies will always create conflict and that he can’t, on his own, fix that tension. He doesn’t want to admit that he’s not at all prepared to help Malia with the arrested development her time as a coyote has caused. He doesn’t want to admit that Lydia’s closeness to death will always turn his stomach, that he’ll always distrust her to a certain degree just because she’s a banshee. Just because of how she was born.

 

But he does admit those things, and more, piece by piece as him and Miss Burrhus talk, and once the diseased flesh is cleaned out he feels lighter. He hadn’t realized the weight of the things he was carrying until given permission to set them down and move on. The first Christmas when his gaggle of college students come home he’s already showing improvement. He engages more, shares more of what happened while they were gone (two more fairies and an honest to God leprechaun). It feels good, closer to how he used to be before the fire. Before Paige. Not that anyone would ever believe him, but he used to be extroverted and bright eyed before everything happened. Funny and loose and happy. When he sees the reactions of his pack at Christmas, especially Erica and Stiles, he starts to think he could be that way again.

 

\---

 

The day they talk about the Nogitsune is not a good day for Derek. He feels his defenses raise almost as soon as their session begins, hackles bristling at the memory and Miss Burrhus’s audacity to even bring it up. She didn’t know the sensitivity of what happened next, couldn’t have, but it’s a time he would rather erase from human history than face and she bears the brunt of that denial.

 

“It got solved, okay? He was possessed but we solved it, even if it took us a while. It’s not like we were working with complete information!”

 

Miss Burrhus remains, as always, implacable. Her perfect chiclet teeth are really starting to piss Derek off. He wants to rip them out of her head.

 

“We never are. Our emissary, if he even thinks of himself that way, is never willing to give up information even when it could save a life or prevent some new dickbag from coming into town.”

 

“Your emissary is Dr. Deaton?”

 

“Yeah, the local vet. Let me tell you, it is  _ humiliating _ to have to go and sit in a vet’s office next to posters detailing the effects of Parvo every time I get some wolfsbane in my system.”

 

She’s scribbles something in her notebook before making eye contact with him.

 

“And you’re not sure he’s your emissary?”

 

Derek pauses, his lip trapped between his teeth. He’s taken to picking all the skin off his lips as an anxious habit, which is probably transference (dammit, now he’s doing it) but a lot more manageable than previous coping mechanism so whatever. He can deal with feeling raw and rubbery whenever he eats something salty.

 

“No, I’m not. He was my mom’s emissary. Then her alpha power passed to Laura, then from Laura to Peter, then Peter to me. Doesn’t that make him mine?”

 

“Not necessarily,” she shrugs, “The loyalties of an emissary are mercurial and up to the individual to decide. He likely isn’t tied to you the same way a werewolf would be. Do you feel like he’s your emissary? Your advisor?”

 

Derek snorted.

 

“I don’t think he’s successfully advised me on anything, aside from pointing me to therapy.”

 

Miss Burrhus covers her smile with her hand, and makes another note. What Derek wouldn’t give to see the notes she takes on him, and his mental state. Somehow, though, he knows he would regret looking at them.

 

“Who do you feel does advise you? It doesn’t have to be a druid, although that is the traditional choice.”

 

“Well…” he searches back in his mind to the last crisis they all handled together, “What do you mean by ‘advise’?”

 

“Who do you go for information? Who is your first choice to represent the pack with non-werewolves? Who supports you when the demands of being an alpha become too much?”

 

It takes Derek a long time to answer. He knows who to name before she’s even finished her line of questioning but he doesn’t want to give voice to it, doesn’t want to admit it. Even here, in the safe space of this tastefully appointed office in a corporate building, it feels wrong to look directly at it.

 

Miss Burrhus’s gaze is unrelenting, not allowing him to break eye contact, and he feels dwarfed by this tiny woman for what must be, by that point, the millionth time. If he doesn’t give his answer this time he knows without a shadow of a doubt that he’ll end up giving it at a future appointment. Sooner or later she’ll clean out this diseased flesh. It’s better to go willingly.

 

“Stiles. Stilinski, I mean. Meh-cheese-slaw Stilinski,” he winces briefly at his butchering of the kid’s name, but he’s heard worse. Scott’s best attempt sounded something like ‘muh-shoes-loo’ and he’d had plenty of time to learn the complexities of the Polish language from Stiles so really Derek has every excuse.

 

“And where was he during this incident?”

 

“He was...he was the one the Nogitsune possessed…” Derek averts his gaze to study the hosta plant by the window. He’s never been able to puzzle out if it’s real or rubber. Miss Burrhus sucks in a breath, quick and quiet, and he hears her set her notepad down on the table beside her.

 

“I’m sorry. I should have connected the name right away.”

 

At that, Derek snorts. “Please. My pack may be small compared to some older, more established ones, but it’s still a lot of names to remember, especially those with a looser tie to the rest of us.”

“Looser tie? The person functioning as your emissary isn’t fully pack?”

 

He shrugs.

 

“His loyalties to Scott McCall will always come first. Yeah, Scott has recently joined my pack, and brought Stiles with him, but I don’t hold any illusions about who’s more important to him.”

 

“Even if that’s true, losing an emissary--or having them threatened--can feel like losing an anchor. If he’s functioning as your emissary it would do you both good to acknowledge that role formally. He’ll feel recognized for his efforts, the loyalties can potentially be brought out of conflict, and you’ll feel more secure as an alpha.”

 

Derek shakes his head, although he’s keenly aware of how much he wants to agree with her. “I can’t put that kind of position on an eighteen year old kid. He’s a freshman at college, barely in town every three weeks, and that’s primarily to visit his father. As it should be.”

 

The paternalistic tension in Miss Burrhus’s face (he secretly calls it her teacher face) melts a little and Derek can tell she’s keeping herself from laughing.

 

“You know, I hear you calling the other members of your pack ‘kids’ quite a lot, but you’re, what, twenty three years old? You’re a kid too. You might not realize it, because you’re an adult with adult responsibilities, but once you get past thirty you see just how young people still are in their early twenties.”

 

“You’re not that old…” Derek tries to do a subtle assessment without seeming to leer. He’d assumed they were about the same age, or at least close enough that they were contemporaries. At the very least, she looked about the age he usually gravitated towards in women, although she wasn’t his type.

 

But then, now that he thought about it, thirty and older  _ was _ the age he usually approached. Jennifer had been thirty when he had been twenty one. Braeden had celebrated her thirty fifth birthday while they were together. Then there’d been some brief trysts with women from his fitness club--one woman he’d met in a cycling class, another had corrected his form deadlifting, and by the time he met a third woman in advanced yoga he’d had the good sense to switch gyms before it became a pattern--and while he couldn’t say for sure how old any of them had been they’d all had that relaxed posture and crinkling around the eyes that he’d always found so attractive in…..Kate. In Kate.

 

“What’s that look mean?” Miss Burrhus asked.

 

“Nothing I just...am realizing that my idea of how mature I am is based on some really unhealthy stuff. Not that I didn’t know that already but…”

 

“I’d like you to expand on that, if you feel comfortable. Before we move on though, I’d urge you to at least think about the emissary issue. Bring it up to him, at least, so that he’s included in the decision. You know we’ve talked more than once about how a pack can only be healthy if all members are allowed to participate.”

 

\---

 

Isaac is the first person he tells about the therapy, one morning near the beginning of spring break. Most of the pack isn’t home yet, and hasn’t gotten a chance to see the new house he’d put down in the preserve on top of the now dormant Nemeton. (As soon as the idea had come to him he’d kicked himself for never considering it before. The magical methods available to protect it were scant and unwieldy, but pouring the foundation of his house around it and sealing it in a chamber below the floorboards was easy.) Isaac, however, had been there with bells on just two days after final grades were posted and claimed his room on the top floor. It feels good to have another heartbeat in the house, although he’s working on ignoring it most of the time. Hypervigilance, his therapist says, is unhealthy.

 

In his sleep, however, he can’t ignore it and Derek bolts awake at two in the morning with the thundering sound of Isaac’s heart in his ears. It’s going jackrabbit quick and even from two floors below Derek can hear the rough stuttered inhales of someone almost paralyzed with fear. He tears out of his bedroom and up the stairs, throwing the door open and skidding to a stop in front of the bed. Isaac is sitting against the headboard, duvet bunched around his hips, and his eyes look wild and manic. Derek swivels his head around the room, checking corners and the still bare closet before resettling on the shivering man in front of him.

 

“What’s happening? Are you alright?”

 

“Yeah, I’m not-- it’s not-- I’m okay,” Isaac tries to wave Derek off but only succeeds in looking even more panicked when his arm jerks away from his body and smacks into his knee.

 

“It sounded like you were under attack. What’s going on?”

 

“I just...it was just a bad dream. I’m okay.”

 

“Isaac,” Derek sits on the foot of the bed, finally allowing himself to come off high alert, “It didn’t sound okay. Even as a dream, that kind of stress is liable to give one of us an embolism.”

 

He shrinks down into himself, and clenches his jaw.

 

“I can stay with Mrs McCall, if it makes it easier for you. I didn’t think it would wake anyone else up.”

 

“You’re staying right here,” Derek flashes his eyes and then thinks better of it and lets his arm splay out, loose and open in front of him. It’s not the submission of a bared neck, but baring wrists and belly will show that he’s not a threat, which feels more suited to the quiet fear still hanging in the air like perfume, “If you want to stay and are comfortable here, then stay. I’m not bothered by you having nightmares. I just don’t want you to think that having them is something you have to put up with. Really, it’s not okay.”

 

Isaac runs his hands through his hair, tangling them in his curls and then working them out again. They’ve both settled, but his eyes still look far away, trapped in the middle distance.

 

“I’ve had them for a long time. It’s not anything I can’t handle.”

 

“Handling it would be taking steps to stop this from happening.”

 

Isaac snorts, and Derek has to bite down on a smile. Any irreverence from Isaac is a good sign.

 

“Look, I don’t know if this would be welcome. You don’t have to take me up on it, and I won’t be offended if you tell me to shove the whole idea up my ass,” another snort, and another suppressed grin, “but I have someone I talk to when everything gets to be too much. She knows about wolves, and it can make a world of difference to be able to speak freely about the things we’ve all been through.”

 

“I don’t have nightmares about wolves,” his voice is soft and calm, but the admission sets a stone in Derek’s gut.

 

“She has a lot of good advice to give about normal human problems too.”

 

“So she’s, what, a witch?”

 

“Not exactly.”

 

\---

 

After that the news spreads quickly. It’s not like Derek asked Isaac to keep it in confidence, but his hackles rise the first time Erica bangs into the house with a duffle bag on each shoulder and shouts “So I hear you know a good head shrinker!” He has to do circular breathing and repeat to himself that impulsive leaders are ineffective leaders a few times before he can say anything back without biting her head off. Even with that the coffee mug he’d been holding ends up with a crack down one side.

 

But despite how violating it feels--and Erica has a special talent for making you feel violated--the way she casually asks for a referral without meeting his eyes keeps him from scolding her or Isaac. At this rate he might as well hire Miss Burrhus on as the dedicated pack head shrinker, not that she’d ever accept the position. Which reminds him of something he’d been meaning to do all summer and could only really do now that the last of his motley crew had arrived and unpacked.

 

“Everyone,” he raises his voice just high enough for the whole house to hear him, “Pack meeting in half an hour. Non negotiable, and it might be a long one so finish up anything important now. Where’s Stiles in the house, is he still here?”

 

“In my room,” Scott’s voice comes back in reply from the second floor, “I’ll pass along the message.”

 

“Send him down, actually. I need to talk to him before I address everyone together.”

 

He hears a muffled “oh shit” and rolls his eyes before padding into the kitchen. He’s wary about doing this at all, but he figures everything goes better with coffee in front of you. After setting the hazelnut creamer and two full mugs on the table he goes into the pantry for the oatmeal muffins with wheat germ. He’s seen the way Stiles lives on instagram (he’s pretty sure the pack thinks of him as a technology neanderthal, as if he didn’t grow up in the age of the internet just like them, but it means he can follow their accounts and keep tabs without them paying him much attention). Every picture taken in that dorm has dirty laundry and Kraft mac and cheese cups as the backdrop, and he’s pretty sure the expensive VOS water bottles he insists on buying are actually carrying tequila more often than Stiles would ever admit. If this is his one chance to get nutrition into him, he’ll take it.

 

“What’s the damage?” Stiles asks from the doorway. He’s almost as tall as the frame now. “Ew, gross, what horrible thing did I do to deserve those doorstops?”

 

“I don’t know Stiles,” Derek drops into one of the kitchen chairs and takes a bite out of a muffin to hide his smirk, “What horrible things have you done recently? I’m sure we can find something.”

 

“Brokefang has jokes, does he?”

 

“Is that...holy shit I think I read that book, is that from Wolf-Speaker?”

 

Stiles shrugs but looks pleased. “My english professor is a  _ huge _ fan of fantasy novels. I’d question the educational value more, but it makes assignments easy since most are at an eighth grade reading level.”

 

Derek throws a chunk of muffin at Stiles’ chest.

 

“You do not badmouth fantasy books. If you want advanced I can always force you to read the Mistborn books.”

 

“I’d rather die, thanks,” Stiles pops the piece in his mouth and then leans forward on the table, “I know it’s not my business, but whatever you’ve got going on in the last year since we all left, it looks good on you.”

 

“That’s partially what I want to talk to you about. I know you heard, since everyone heard, about the therapy I’ve been doing. One thing it’s done for me is give me the space to look at things more objectively, to step away from a lot of things I just assumed to be true about the pack. And I think I could make some good changes with that information, even if I can’t just fix everything.”

 

“Okaaay, so what kind of changes need to be discussed in private?”

 

“You’re familiar with the role of emissary in a wolf pack?”

 

“Yeah, Deaton. He’s kind of like our ambassador, who also knows magic, and helps the pack stay rooted in their humanity. It’s that whole sons of lycaon thing that Gerard liked to babble about.”

 

“Basically, yes. Except Deaton isn’t our emissary. He’s helped us in the past, and may do it again in the future, but he isn’t pack. His first loyalty will always be to his own interests. Which is fine, he’s entitled to that,” Derek shrugs a shoulder, “but it doesn’t serve our purposes. A pack needs an emissary in the same way each individual wolf needs their anchors.”

 

“So, what, we just don’t have one? Shit, that’s…..that’s not good.”

 

Derek takes a minute to draw from his mug, picking through all the possible ways to broach this subject. Ultimately he settles on blunt. If there’s anyone for whom tact won’t work, it’s the lanky reckless man across from him.

 

“If we didn’t have one, we would have broken apart a long time ago. We stayed together because you stepped up as emissary, even though none of us realized it at first. You’ve been our ambassador and our anchor even when we were functioning as two separate packs, mine and Scott’s, and that’s no small feat.”

 

“I...but I’m not magic. I mean, Deaton showed me how to do that mountain ash circle thing, but the way he talked about it made it sound like anyone could do it. Power of will and all that hokum.”

 

“You don’t have to be magic to fill the role, but you’re right that it is something anyone can learn to do. ‘Druid’ isn’t a creature like werewolves or banshees, it’s just the name of a field of study within magic. You could become one, if you wanted, or you could become a wiccan or learn old norse ways or santeria or hellenism.”

 

“Dude, that’s...that’s amazing. Who do I talk to, what do I need to do? That sounds way more effective than joining the police force. Is there like a Hogwarts or--”

 

“ _ Stiles _ .”

 

He stops himself from getting up and pacing, but just barely, and Derek rolls his eyes again.

 

“First off, you should still join the police, if you like the work, or get some other degree. There’s a reason Deaton is a vet. Magic doesn’t pay well and it doesn’t have a dental plan. It doesn’t even take up that much of your time once you’re proficient. You’ll still need something to fall back on. Second of all, the emissary role needs to be addressed first. Just because you stepped up when we were in need doesn’t mean you’re obligated to keep doing it forever. We can find another emissary, talk to a druidic council or one of the nearby packs.”

 

The look of idignation on Stiles’ face feeds the warm feeling in Derek’s chest, but he holds up a hand before the rant he clearly has brewing can get started.

 

“But if you do want to stay the emissary long term, then I think we should make it official. In a lot of packs the Alpha is the only one to know the identity of the emissary, but if you’re on board with it I think we should skip that particular tradition.”

 

He’s still wound up for an argument, but Stiles lets himself slump back against his chair. The clean floral scent of happiness is radiating from his side of the table.

 

“Well look at you, Big Bad. Communicating like a pro.”

 

“Yeah, well. Eat your muffin. Everyone will be down in just a minute and then we can make an honest man out of you.”

 

The floral scent gets stronger.

 

\---

 

He doesn’t go to Miss Burrhus forever. A part of him thought that’s how it would be, once he’d push past his initial hesitation and accepted her help. With everything that had come to Beacon Hills in his life he thought he’d always need help. But once they’ve processed the big traumas they were able to find him ways to cope when they rear their head. Once he knew how to cope he could handle the triggers better. When trouble did come back to town, as it probably always would given enough time, he saw for the first time his own tendency to shut down and jump on the grenade. And he’d stopped it.

 

They have less and less to talk about when he goes in, and the appointments dwindle without him noticing until he’s only going once every two weeks. Finally one afternoon Miss Burrhus snaps her notebook shut (she’d gone through four in the time they knew each other, and he’s not sure if he should be proud of that number) and settles back in her armchair.

 

“So. If you’re amenable to it, I think we should discuss a plan to finish out your treatment. You’ve met your goals. If you need to come back down the line you can, of course, but we’ve done the work we set out to accomplish.”

 

Derek glanced at the hosta by the window, at the notebooks lined up behind the desk. He wonders which ones are for Isaac. If there’s one there for Stiles. Or Lydia. He’ll probably never know, but then he’s had to get used to the sensation of not knowing.

 

“Just like that?”

 

She smiles. “Just like that.”

Although he hasn’t seen Deaton for a few years by that point, and could do with a few more if he’s honest, he sends him a card.

**Author's Note:**

> I know the show is intentionally vague about time and ages. The fire happened either 6, 9, or 10 years ago depending on the episode. Peter Hale was young enough during the Paige incident to blend in with high school students but in season 5 they say he entered the hospital because of the fire at age 38. Things like that.
> 
> I draw the goddamn line at Braeden. There is an age at which you can pose as a high school student and there is an age at which you can pose as a Marshall and the two are nowhere near one another.


End file.
